


A Thousand Years in Your Eyes

by CelticAurora



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Athos Angst Later On, F/M, Falling Out of Love, Slight Domestic AU, in which Athos wants to believe the best of his wife but disillusionment is a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticAurora/pseuds/CelticAurora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"For a thousand years in your eyes are like yesterday when it passes by, or like the hours of the night." - Psalm 90:4</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Paris, present day. Olivier d'Athos de la Fere has the perfect life. He's one of the leading officers in the most elite ranks of the Prefecture of Police of Paris. He has Porthos and Aramis, two of the most loyal friends and partners he could ask for. He has Thomas, his remarkable little brother on the fast track to a successful political career in the Assemblee Nationale. And he has Anne, his beautiful, smart, and loving wife.</p><p>But dead bodies begin turning up in Paris, important political figures murdered in gruesome fashion. France's politicians are running scared, including Thomas, who fears being targeted because of his quick rise. Being dragged into the ongoing investigation starts the happily-married de la Feres on a path to destruction as clues start to turn up that point to a truth that Athos doesn't want to believe: That his wife might be somehow connected to these murders.</p><p>The lives of France's political figures are at stake. But for Athos, what's at stake is far more personal than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Dear and Loving Husband

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this tumblr post](http://thatdeadpoetgirl.tumblr.com/post/110761939315/marthajefferson-a-t-h-o-s-olivier-de-la-fere). I needed it enough that I decided to write it myself.
> 
> It was my intention to post the first chapter of this on Valentine's Day; unfortunately, I'm about an hour and a half too late for that. Oh well, the notion is still there.
> 
> At any rate, enjoy and pardon my slight fudging around of Parisian locations and/or the workings of the police system in Paris. I've done as much digging as I can for information, but I've also had to take a few creative liberties to fill in the gaps.

_"The sweetest submission_

_Drinking it in_

_The wine, the women, the bedroom hymns."_

\- "Bedroom Hymns" - Florence + The Machine

* * *

Once upon a time, Olivier de la Fère hated Valentine’s Day.

The whole holiday was, in his opinion, contrived, overdone, and celebrated for entirely the wrong reason. For God’s sake, anyone who had paid attention in history class would have known that not only was the patron saint for that disgusting holiday brutally executed for his secret marriage-performing acts, but there had been a violent gang massacre that day. Although that was in the States, not France – the Americans were always so funny about affairs of the heart, after all. At any rate, all the kissing and canoodling and sappy cards were just too much for Olivier. Throughout his later years in school – once the boys were old enough to discover that girls were to be mooned over in a ridiculous fashion and not avoided – he had always rolled his eyes at the obnoxious about of making out in the halls, which always seemed to double on Valentine’s Day. University meant spending the awful evening of Valentine’s Day in a bar drinking, a tradition which bled over into his adult life. It was sad, true, but for him, the nausea of a post-Valentine’s Day hangover was well worth not having to deal with the sappiness that came with the holiday.

At least, it had been.

And then, he met Anne.

Anne de Breuil. God, even just the thought of that woman brought a smile to his face. It still astonished him, even five years later, how he could have been so fortunate. How, out of all the people packed into that loud, dingy nightclub, it had been him that her eyes had landed on. Not Porthos with his bulging biceps and dimples that were to die for. Not Aramis, with his perfect mane of hair and eyes like melted chocolate.

A year and a half of dating and a six-month engagement later, he was sliding a ring onto her finger and relishing the taste of the name Anne de la Fère on his tongue. Back then, he still couldn’t fathom that she was his. Hell, even after three years of marriage, it was hard to believe.

It was just cold enough that small flakes of snow were falling from the pitch-dark sky, leaving a fine, powdery coat of it over everything. Olivier buried his face a little deeper into his scarf, wishing that he had thought to bring gloves. He would have stuffed his hands into his pockets, but both hands were full – one carrying a bouquet of flowers, the other tightly gripping the neck of a bottle of champagne. He picked up the pace a bit; he’d worked a late shift down at the precinct, which meant there would be no romantic dinner and a movie for him and Anne.

But it was not so late that there weren’t _other_ romantic activities they could get up to.

The townhouse they shared was a comfortable one, located in the 4th Arrondissement along the Rue de Renard. It hadn’t been cheap – it was the 4th Arrondissement, after all – but it had been a place they’d fallen in love with, and it wasn’t as if the de la Fère family fortune, Olivier’s inheritance following the death of his parents shortly after he’d met Anne, couldn’t take it. It wasn’t a very long walk from the Metro at the Hôtel de Ville to their home, but between his stop for the roses and champagne and the snow falling from the sky, by the time he got to the doorstep, his hands felt half-frozen, leaving his fingers stiff and making trying to unlock the door a difficult task. He managed to do it without letting go of either of his surprises for his wife or dropping his keys. The blast of warm air that greeted him when he opened the door was a welcome relief.

“Hello?” he called as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The foyer was dim, but at the end of the hall, light was coming from the doorways leading to the kitchen and the den, leading him to suspect Anne was still up. A moment later, she swept into view, silhouetted by a soft yellow glow from the lights in the kitchen.

“Olivier!”

She was wearing a silky red dressing gown and a fresh coat of red lipstick on those sinful lips of hers. In the low light, he could see that she was not bare-footed, but appeared to be wearing black stockings. He raised an eyebrow, curious, but before he could ask, she threw her arms around his neck – ignoring the dusting of snow on his shoulders – and swooped in for a kiss. She smelled like the jasmine perfume he loved so much, enough so that it made his knees weak with want. She broke away after a minute with a throaty chuckle, smirking up at him.

“I’ve got a bit of lipstick on you.”

“Mmm, I don’t think I mind,” he replied. “I’ve brought you something, love.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He lifted the bouquet, watching with quiet delight as her eyes lit up. She took it carefully, raising it to her nose and taking a delicate sniff.

“Roses? Oh, Olivier…” she breathed, looking up at him with such a look of love that it made his chest tighten and fill with warmth, brought a rare, genuine smile to his face. “Olivier, they’re beautiful…are, are those..?”

“Forget-me-nots,” he said, indicating the tiny blue sprigs of flower interspersed with the roses. “Your favorite.”

She sighed. “You are too perfect.”

He raised his other hand, showing her the bottle of champagne. “There’s more.”

“Champagne, too? I am too lucky. What am I ever going to do with you, you’re absolutely perfect.”

“Hardly.” He shook his head. “Consider it my way of apologizing for having to work late on Valentine’s Day.”

“Was I even mad?” She took the bottle of champagne, stretching on her toes to peck a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Why don’t you take off your coat? Stay a while? I’ll pour us a drink.”

“Mmm, yes ma’am,” he said with a smile, watching as she sauntered back towards the kitchen, hips swinging hypnotically. He shed his coat to the sound of a cork being popped from a bottle, hanging it in the closet carefully, draping his scarf around the collar of it. Free of his coat, he made his way to the kitchen, where Anne was waiting with two glasses of champagne and another coat of lipstick. Her green eyes raked him in from top to bottom as he stepped over the threshold; the look in her eyes was almost predatory.

“Have I ever mentioned how handsome you are in that uniform?”

He glanced down at his uniform. It wasn’t anything special, standard daily wear for the _Préfecture de police de Paris_ : A crisp black jacket worn over a white shirt and black tie, with black pants and black shoes shined to perfection. His belt was still at his waist, holding his service pistol at his right hip. Below the red cords adorning his left shoulder was the emblem of the _Préfecture de police de Paris_ ; on the right breast pocket was a silver badge bearing a fleur-de-lis, marking him as one of the elite officers under Prefect de Treville himself. The motto of de Treville’s elites – _unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno_ – was inscribed into the badge. His call name on the squad – Athos, from his mother’s maiden name d’Athos, which somehow wormed its way onto his already absurdly long name on his birth certificate – was also inscribed on his badge, beneath the fleur-de-lis.

To be honest, he had always thought his partners, Porthos and Aramis, wore the uniform better. The shirt and jacket hugged Porthos’s massive chest and biceps perfectly, and the color of the uniform made Aramis’s eyes seem like endless dark pools. But standing here, with Anne looking at him like she wanted to peel that uniform off him inch by delicious inch right there in the kitchen…that was enough to make him feel good-looking.

That stare was doing marvels for other parts of his body, too.

“You might have mentioned it.” He took his glass from her, holding it up for a toast. “To us?”

“To Valentine’s Day,” she said, raising her own.

He tapped his against hers, relishing the soft clink in their quiet kitchen. “To love.”

Champagne was meant to be sipped slowly, but both Olivier and Anne finished their glasses in one go. She laughed, and now, with a drink in him making him even more relaxed, it was his turn to eye her up and down.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that robe before,” he said. “Is it new?”

“It is. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

“Since you were lovely enough to bring me flowers for Valentine’s Day,” she drawled, taking his glass and sauntering away, to refill them both, “and not just _any_ flowers, but my _favorite_ flowers, and _champagne_ on top of that…I think that deserves a little something special for my dear and loving husband.”

She set the glasses on the counter as she spoke, fiddling with the sash that tied the robe closed at her waist. Once she was certain she had his complete and undivided attention, she untied the robe, shedding it in one fluid motion.

His throat went dry and his knees weak at the sight of what was under her robe. A sumptuous corset of red brocade cinched in her waist slightly, black lace at the neckline of it accenting her generous décolletage. Panties of the same color were slung low on her hips, while lacy red garters clipped to the bottom of her corset, holding up her thigh-high black stockings. She leaned against the counter, teasing resting a finger against her lips and raising an eyebrow at the thunderstruck look on his face.

“Like what you see?”

He took a deep breath, drinking the sight of her in, feeling his cock straining against the zip of his trousers and making them uncomfortably tight. All he could do to answer her question was nod dumbly. Anne laughed, gently kicking her robe aside with her feet, pouring them both another glass of champagne, amusement in her eyes as she pressed it into his hands.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, _mon amour_.”

Before she could raise the glass to her lips, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, crashing his lips down on hers. He swept his tongue over her lips, tasting the waxiness of the lipstick and the sweetness of champagne. She set her glass aside quickly, in order to bunch her hands into his shirt and drag him closer. He set his glass down too, placing his hands on the curve of her hips. Once he had devoured her lips, he moved on to her neck instead, the champagne and the smell of her perfume making his head spin.

“Anne…Anne…”

“Mmm, yes,” she purred, tilting her head back, moving her hands from his shirt to his hair, bunching it in her fists and tugging lightly, sending a jolt through him.

The kissed until they were dizzy and breathless, drank champagne, kissed again, this time with him bending Anne over the counter, one of her legs hooked lazily around his waist. At some point in the haze of kissing and drinking and torturously grinding their still-clothed bodies against each other, the champagne ran out. Olivier took the opportunity to break open a fine bottle of red wine instead; they decided to forgo glasses and sip straight from the bottle.

Half the bottle in found Olivier sprawled in a kitchen chair with his belt, pistol, and jacket on the table and his pants unzipped, Anne straddling him, pressing kisses over his stubbly jaw and rocking her hips against him. As she moved to kiss his neck, he placed a hand to the back of her head, turning it enough to whisper in her ear.

“Upstairs. Bedroom. Now.”

Hers was a bedroom look, all heavy-lidded eyes and a come-hither grin. “Well, if you insist.”

She took him by the wrist and half-led, half-dragged him through the front hall, up the flight of stairs and down the hall to their spacious master suite. He half-tackled her onto the bed, teeth testing her collarbones, stroking a hand up her thigh before shoving it under her to attack the laces holding the back of her corset together. She moaned, fisting her hands into his hair again.

“Darling…” she breathed. “Darling…it hooks up the front…”

“Oh. Well then.” The hooks were easier for his drunken hands to undo, and as soon as it was open, Anne’s hands were shoving him out of the way, all but tearing the buttons off his shirt in her haste to get it off of him. She yanked the tie off as well, swatting it across his ass once before throwing it off the bed. Her garters and stockings went with the tie; he pressed hot, wet kisses against the inside of her thighs, and the sound of her moaning was nearly enough to make him come right then and there.

They made love like a pair of teenagers, the champagnes making their groping clumsy and kissing sloppy. At one point, in a surprisingly dexterous move, Anne grabbed him and flipped him onto his back, riding him with a breathless laugh. The first round was fast, almost a little rough, with Anne pulling Olivier’s hair as she rode him, and Olivier returning the favor by rolling her over onto her back and pinning her wrists above her head as he pounded into her.

The second time was slower, less haste and more teasing, kissing and canoodling while they fucked. Anne nipped at his neck, making him groan; his response was to give a purposefully slow roll of his hips, making her beg for him. They both came with each other’s names on their lips.

At long last, they collapsed against the sheets, soaked with sweat and other fluids, completely spent. Anne kissed him long and slow, then gently broke away, smiling up at him. He wrapped an arm around her, pressing his sweaty forehead to hers.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he muttered, his voice drowsy and content.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too. _Je t’aime_.”

“ _Moi aussi, je t’aime_.”

There was a quiet moment where he almost dozed off, just staring into Anne’s eyes and listening to her breathing. She finally broke the silence:

“Olivier?”

“Hm?”

“Swear that nothing will ever come between us?”

He breathed out slowly, giving her a tired smile and a gentle kiss on the forehead. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She combed her fingers through his damp hair, watching as his eyelids drooped. “Get some rest, darling.”

He nodded, tucking his head half onto her shoulder and half onto his pillow, mumbling quiet, unintelligible endearments against her skin. She continued to card her fingers through his hair, watching as he closed his eyes, listening to his breathing slow, seeing his back rise and fall steadily. It was then that she closed her eyes, too, savoring the quiet sounds of their bedroom, and the low rumble of late traffic on the street beyond. She enjoyed those snatches of tranquility, stolen moments where everything was absolutely peaceful.

On the nightstand, her phone lit up, buzzing along the wooden surface. With a sigh, she reached out and grabbed it; unlocking the phone, she found she had a text. The number had not been stored in her phone, but she had seen it enough times that she knew it by heart – and besides, there was only one person she knew of who would be texting her at this ungodly hour.

_Spanish ambassador. Hotel Le Six. Ask for Mendoza. You know what to do._

She sighed, rolling out bed and beginning the process of gathering her scattered clothing from all over the bedroom. Her lingerie back on, she opened the armoire and fetched a short black dress, pulling it on. She grabbed a pair of matching black heels but slipped her feet into a pair of trainers, because no sensible woman would metro halfway across the arrondissement in winter in a pair of heels.

Just as she was about to slip out, there was a grunt from the bed. She froze, glancing back over her shoulder. Olivier grunted again, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. She sighed, shaking her head and heading for the downstairs coat closet, not even pausing when the fourth stair down creaked and making sure she hadn’t woken her husband.

It would be a long time before he woke.

She was sure of it.


	2. Dead in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no cure for a hangover quite like a dead body and an international incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a little self-debate and discussing with [queenaramis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofbearisland/pseuds/queenaramis), I've decided that Athos will be referred to as "Athos" in narrative for the rest of the fic because...well, it makes the most sense. He'll still be called "Olivier" by, say, Anne and his brother and the like, but...narratively, he's Athos. Just so there's no confusion.

_"I waited painfully_

_For night to fall again_

_Trying to silence the fear within me_

_Out of an ivory mist_

_I felt a stinging kiss_

_And saw a crimson stain on her lips."_

-"Forsaken" - Dream Theater

* * *

Athos woke to his phone buzzing its way along the nightstand. Sunlight was cutting through the thin drapes on the windows, and he scrunched his face up, groaning. His head was throbbing from the abundance of alcohol he and his wife had consumed the night before, and his tongue felt like someone had put a sock on it. He rolled over onto his side to glare blearily at his phone, groaning again as the motion made his stomach turn over. A bottle of champagne and almost a full bottle of wine on an empty stomach was proving to be an awful idea.

The bed was empty, apart from him. Slowly, he sat up, squinting into the master bathroom. No sign of Anne in there. And the house was crypt-silent; she wasn’t downstairs, he would have heard her. Glancing at the alarm clock, he saw that it was nearly eleven. Most likely, Anne had already left for work – Prime Minister Richelieu kept early hours, and insisted that his personal assistant did the same, at least according to Anne.

With a soft moan, he laid back down in the bed, closing his eyes. His phone had stopped buzzing, for which he was grateful. He knew he should have checked it, it see who called – after all, it could have been important – but the throbbing in his skull begged for him to lay back down and celebrate his day off by sleeping for a few more hours. Besides, if whoever called him really needed him, they’d call him back.

Which they did.

His head hadn’t even been back on the pillow for five minutes when his phone began buzzing its way along the nightstand again. He lifted his head slightly, glaring at the offending device as it shuddered its way across the wooden surface. Clearly, whatever it was, it wasn’t going to wait until his hangover cleared up.

“God damn it.” He grabbed the phone, swiping his thumb across the screen and putting the phone to his ear, cupping his forehead and tousled hair with his other hand. “De la Fère.”

“Athos.” He knew that voice well – and knew, at once, this call was going to be pretty damn important.

“Prefect Treville.” He sat up, trying not to moan or swear as his head throbbed mercilessly. “Is everything alright?”

“I hate to have to do this to you on your day off, but I need you on duty. Immediately.”

Immediately. That meant no time for a shower, or even a strong cup of black coffee to help with the hangover. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, standing up slowly. His uniform – or, at least, his shirt, pants, and shoes – were scatted across the bedroom floor; the rest, he supposed, was still on the table downstairs. He grabbed his pants, heading across the room to the dresser for a clean pair of boxers.

“What’s going on?” he asked, tucking the phone between his ear and his shoulder. Treville sounded grave; he was often serious, but only grave when something bad had happened.

Treville sighed. “Meet us at the Hôtel Le Six as soon as you can. And Athos?”

“Sir?”

“I wouldn’t advise eating breakfast before you come.”

* * *

Treville was waiting outside the doors to the swanky boutique hotel, which had drawn quite bit of attention due to the three police cars parked in the front. Athos elbowed his way through the gawking crowd, flashing his badge at the more stubborn onlookers that refused to let him through.

Jean-Armand de Treville, the Prefect of Paris’s police force, was a man nearing fifty, with the faintest touches of gray in his close-cropped hair and his neatly-trimmed mustache and beard. He stood like a soldier, back stiff, shoulders straight, eyes combing the milling crowd for Athos. As soon as he saw the younger officer, he approached; Athos raised a hand to the level of his temple in salute.

“Sir.”

“Athos. Thank you, for your promptness.” He nodded, an understood gesture of “at ease,” and Athos’s hand dropped back to his side. “Again, I apologize. I know this was your day off.”

“If duty calls, I must answer.” He followed Treville into the lobby of the hotel. As they passed through, heading towards the elevator, he spotted a young, ponytailed officer kneeling in front of a shell-shocked maid. The officer nodded to Athos, who returned the gesture before boarding the elevator with his commanding officer. “What happened?”

Treville’s face was grim. “It might be easier to show you.”

They rode the elevator to the top floor, where the most luxurious suites were; the corridor was lined with police, many of them standing at doors and keeping the curious guests trapped in their rooms. From down the hall, an open door threw sunlight into the hall. The sounds of soft chatter and radio static drifted the hall, getting louder as Athos and Treville approached – and even louder as they stepped into the room, which was guarded by two rather large and imposing officers. It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary room, as far as hotel rooms went: Large, given that it was one of the high-end suites, with an elegant set of double doors that led to a small balcony and a large bed with rumpled sheets. A man’s suit, studded with several metals and draped with a sash, hung on the partially-opened closet door. And, currently, the room was being thoroughly examined by members of the forensics department of the Prefecture.

“In here,” Treville grunted, leading Athos into the en-suite bathroom. The presence of the two of them made the bathroom crowded, with two other of Treville’s most elite officers already in there, their attention focused on what – or, rather, who – was in the bathtub.

There was something somewhat familiar about rather obese man sprawled in the tub, which was filled with water that was now both cold and pink in color from the blood that had run down the man’s flabby chest. The water was deep enough to allow for some cover, much to Athos’s relief, as he had no desire to see the heavy man’s naked body in its entirety – that would surely make him heave. From under his brushed and slightly-damp mop of ginger-brown hair, his eyes were wide and staring, a white film already forming over them. On one round cheek was a perfect outline of a pair of lips in crimson lipstick, a kiss for the departed man. The two officers were kneeling in front of the tub; from his position standing just over the threshold, it was easy to see what had killed the man: His throat had been gruesomely slashed open, leaving a gaping red line across his neck, almost like a grotesque mockery of a smile.

“So that’s why you told me not to eat breakfast,” Athos muttered.

“Well?” Treville asked, to the two officers. The smaller of the two, a lithe man with golden skin and a mane of dark brown curls, turned and stood to address his commander.

“Judging by skin tone, body temperature, and the degree of rigor to the limbs, I’d put time of death between eight and ten hours ago,” Aramis said crisply, stripping off the blood-stained latex gloves he wore. “I think we can all agree that cause of death was exsanguination.”

Six years of medical school and a two-year stint in the forensics unit had made René d’Herblay – better known by his call name, Aramis – the squad’s go-to when it came to examining bodies at crime scenes. He was such an unlikely man for such a gruesome job, it seemed, with his easy laughs, suave smiles, and Casanova-like ways. But now, his face was serious, eyes dark and humorless in the face of the violent scene. He scrubbed a hand over his well-kept mustache and beard.

“Indeed,” Treville said, nodding, before turning to the taller of the two officers, a dark-skinned, curly-haired man whose massive biceps and wicked scar over his left eye made him look as though he was better suited to being a nightclub bouncer or private bodyguard than a police officer. “The perpetrator…how did they get in?”

A childhood spent shuffled between low-income group homes after the death of his mother had left Isaac du Vallon – Porthos, he preferred – with an impressive rap sheet of petty crimes, and now, more than a decade down the road, a reputation as an analyst of crime scenes. If there was anyone on the squad who could reconstruct a blow-by-blow of act by looking at its aftermath, it was him. He stood up; he was tall enough that his curls very nearly brushed the ceiling.

“The lock on the door was intact,” he said. “As was the lock on the balcony doors. I mean, I know we’re on the top floor and that doesn’t seem likely, but you never know. Either his attacker had a key to the room, or…”

“Or he let his attacker in,” Athos put in. The latter seemed entirely possible, at least to him. After all, why bother leaving a kiss on the dead man’s cheek if not to suggest he was somewhat intimately familiar with his murderer.

“Well, the coroner may be able to tell is if there were, ah…up to anything prior to the victim’s death,” Treville said. “D’Artagnan should be finishing up downstairs any moment, he’ll let us know if they have anything on who might have been coming or going.”

“Sir.” An officer stuck his head into the bathroom, offering Treville a small brown object: A wallet. “We found this on the bedside table.”

“Thank you.” Treville took the wallet, flipping it open. Standing next to Treville, Athos could see a driver’s license and identification card, both issued not by the French government, but the Spanish government, along with a series of credit cards with several of the Continent’s top banks. The name on the license was Guillermo Mendoza; seeing the name sent a sickening swoop through Athos’s stomach that had nothing to do with his lingering hangover. He now knew why Treville had called him in, why his presence was needed. He knew exactly who the man in the bathtub was. And judging by the look of resignation on Treville’s face, he knew that Treville had known the moment he’d stepped into the room and seen the dead man.

“Victim is Guillermo Mendoza,” Treville said. “The Spanish ambassador.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged concerned looks. Athos, meanwhile, swore. He didn’t like getting involved with politics, but with wife working under Prime Minister Richelieu and his brother following the de la Fère family tradition of making his name a well-known one in the political sphere, he knew more about politics than he ever needed to know – especially in regards to France’s strained diplomatic relationship with Spain. But even without all that, he would have been an idiot not to think that the fact that Spain’s ambassador to France had ended up getting his throat slit in the bathtub of his hotel room was anything less than a bad thing. Things were already tense with Spain as it was.

This was only going to make things much worse.

“Sir.” The ponytailed officer from the front lobby appeared at the bathroom door, craning his head over Athos’s shoulder to speak to Treville. Just barely twenty-five and still possessing the gangly, awkward lankiness of a teenage boy, Charles d’Artagnan – known simply by his surname – was the youngest and newest member of Prefect Treville’s elite squad. There had been a few that had argued that d’Artagnan’s promotion had stemmed not from any skills he possessed but from his late father’s long-standing friendship with Treville; the late Alexandre d’Artagnan had been an officer for many years alongside the Prefect. Treville had seen to it that the more vocal dissenters learned that shouting this notion at him would not bode well for them, but it couldn’t be denied that he had a certain paternal fondness for the boy. But the boy’s promotion was well-founded; despite his stubbornness and occasional temper flares, d’Artagnan was a fine officer, a decent marksman, and almost as good in hand-to-hand as Athos.

“What did you find out?” Treville asked.

“The maid’s only been here since eight – she didn’t even go into the room until almost ten-thirty. Said the ‘do not disturb’ sign was up,” d’Artagnan said. “And the desk clerk who would have been on duty at the time of the incident has long since gone home.”

“Were you able to get a hold of the manager?”

“I’m trying to,” he answered. “I was told that she was in the middle of seeing to an issue another guest was having. I asked for her to be sent to this room when she was done.”

“Very well.” Treville nodded, his expression determined, but Athos could see in his posture, in the slump of his shoulders and the drop of his chin, that he was overwhelmed by the entire situation. He turned, nudging his way past Athos and d’Artagnan to speak to one of the members of the forensics squad. After a moment, he turned back to the four men crowded near the door of the bathroom. Before he could speak, however, a young woman came to the door of the room. She couldn’t have been any more than twenty-five or twenty-six, and looked pale and flustered. Strands of her auburn hair were escaping the smart bun she’d pulled it back into, and she had hastily shoved the sleeves of her blouse, which were soaked through, to her elbows.

“I was told the police wanted to talk to me?” she called into the room, looking to Treville with some apprehension.

“Are you the manager?”

She nodded, stepping past the guards and into the room. “Y-Yes…Constance Bonacieux, general manager. Sorry for the delay, I was with another guest. I’ve…heard there was an incident?”

“A guest has been murdered,” Athos informed her succinctly, a little irritated that she, the general manager, had somehow missed the fact that one of her guests was dead. At the sight of all the blood draining from her horrified face, however, he felt a twinge of regret at having been so blunt. Constance swayed unsteadily, grabbing the doorframe; Aramis and Porthos cut their comrade withering looks before hurrying to her, guiding her to a chair that had not been taped off, Aramis murmuring to her gently about breathing deeply and putting her head between her legs if she felt dizzy. She looked up at the group of them, eyes wide in terror, as if she expected to be accused of the murder and arrested at any moment.

“Murdered?” she whispered, looking around, then down at her lap, where her thin hands were shaking. “Oh God…”

Treville sighed, beckoning Aramis and Porthos back over, to where he still stood with Athos and d’Artagnan. They all huddled in close.

“The forensics team is going to finish up here and move Ambassador Mendoza to the morgue,” he said. “D’Artagnan, I need you to stay and question Mademoiselle Bonacieux, see if she knows anything – and be gentle with her, please. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, you three are with me.”

“To where?” Athos asked.

“To the offices of President de Bourbon and Prime Minister Richelieu.” The three men exchanged looks, but before any of them could speak, Treville raised a hand, cutting them all off. “A Spanish ambassador has been killed on French soil. As of right now, this is an international incident. As such…the President and Prime Minister need to know. As soon as possible.”

He headed for the door to the hotel room, clearly expecting to be followed. D’Artagnan shuffled away, to go see to Constance Bonacieux, shaking in her chair and on the verge of tears. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos all exchanged looks, Treville’s words hanging heavily over them. _President de Bourbon. Prime Minister Richelieu_.

_International incident._

“We,” Athos began, finally breaking the silence, “are so fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You know where to find me](http://thatdeadpoetgirl.tumblr.com)


	3. Helpless Politicians and Hopeless Romantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the leading politicians of France, and Aramis being advised against a career as a marriage counselor.

_“Politics have no relation to morals.”_

– Niccolo Machiavelli

* * *

 

 

They rode together to the offices of President de Bourbon, packed into a squad car with Treville at the wheel, navigating his way through the narrow streets of the Eighth Arrondissement. The ride was uncomfortably silent; occasionally, someone’s radio would crackle to life, but no conversation was to be had. Everyone in the car was too anxious about the upcoming conversation with the Prime Minister and the President.

The ride over was far too quick for the liking of anyone in the car. All too soon, Treville pulled up at the massive gates at the Palais de l’Élysée, opening his window to show his badge to the guard at the gate. A moment later, the gate creaked open and they were waved into the palace grounds. As Treville pulled up to the front of the palace, they all spotted another vehicle – the somber black hearse-like car that sent their stomachs sinking instantly.

Prime Minister Richelieu’s car.

“Well,” Aramis commented as Treville put the police cruiser in park, “at least we don’t have to make two trips of it. I’d rather like to get my chewing-out over with in one fell swoop.”

He was trying to be humorous, but his attempt fell flat. Neither Porthos nor Athos laughed, and Treville merely sighed in resignation before opening his door and getting out, heading for the entrance.

“You were right, Athos,” Porthos grumbled. “We’re fucked.”

“Well, no sense in forestalling the inevitable,” Aramis said, opening his door. “Might as well.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos grunted, unfolding his large frame from the confines of the cruiser’s cramped backseat and following Aramis out. Athos brought up the rear, schooling a stoic look onto his face and not trying to let on about his trepidation in discussing this matter with the President and Prime Minister, knowing they’d be met with disdainful scorn from the latter and an all-out tantrum from the former.

The only bright spot in all this, he reflected as an aide guided him and his fellow officers down the massive entry hall and off onto a smaller secondary corridor, was that he might get to see Anne, if Richelieu was here.

Clearly, he was not the only one who thought of that. Aramis fell back into step next to him, a conspiratorial smirk on his face.

“I know your wife is Richelieu’s personal secretary and all,” he said, “but please do try to keep the PDA to a bare minimum.”

“You act as if I don’t know how to behave in public with my wife,” Athos said, raising an eyebrow.

“Look, I know you’re probably dying to bend her over the nearest hard surface and fuck both your brains out, but this is a serious meeting.” His grin grew wider. “Although I’d kill to see the look on Richelieu’s face…and de Bourbon’s, come to think of it. Oooh, imagine if you threw her down on de Bourbon’s desk and - !”

“Is nothing sacred with you?” Athos growled quietly, as their party stepped in front of a closed door.

“If you have to ask the question, then you already know the answer.”

The door opened a moment later, and the aide guided them in. The room was not President de Bourbon’s office, as they expected, but instead a spacious sitting room of sorts, with antique, stiff-back couches, polished coffee tables of dark wood, and tall windows to let in the early afternoon sunlight. The door was flanked by two men in dark suits and earpieces, whose broad shoulders and thick arms could have given Porthos a run for his money. Suspicious bulges in their jackets told Athos they were well-armed, and their stony, vaguely-menacing expressions indicated they were likely not afraid to use said arms.

Seated on one of these couches with all the regal indolence of a king, a glass of wine in one hand, was Louis de Bourbon, President of France. He was a slight man in his thirties, his shoulder-length curly black hair and taste in expensive, colorful suits reminiscent of a Victorian dandy. Today, his suit was cream-colored, though he had removed the jacket and draped it over the back of the couch to better show off his plum silk shirt. He was leaning against the back of the couch, one arm draped across the top of it, around the thin shoulders of his wife, Anna. In contrast to her foppish husband, Anna was dressed in a smart gray suit skirt, the blouse under her jacket white and crisp, her light brown hair twisted into a tidy bun. A golden cross glittered at her throat, her one real concession to ornamentation.

Athos noticed Treville stiffen slightly at the sight of Anna de Bourbon. It was not because of any dislike for the First Lady – in fact, more than once, Athos had sworn he’d heard Treville say he was certain Anna could run the country better than her husband, a sentiment he didn’t doubt. Her presence, however, added an extra level of discomfort to the conversation that was about to happen: Anna de Bourbon was a native of Spain, sister to a powerful member of the Spanish government. While hoping to advance his career to a higher level of government, Louis de Bourbon had wed her seven years earlier, a move that many said was meant to show his support for improved diplomatic relations between the two countries – and would do him well if he did win the Presidency.

Having the discussion with Richelieu and de Bourbon was going to be bad enough. Having it with Richelieu, de Bourbon, and his wife, would be much worse.

“Ah! Prefect Treville!” Louis greeted with a broad, beaming grin. “What a surprise! Armand and I were just discussing our fine police force, weren’t we, Armand?”

Prime Minister Richelieu nodded, with a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Twenty years Louis’s senior, Armand Richelieu was a grave-looking man whose personality was better suited for a fire-and-brimstone clergyman of old than a modern political leader. He did have the look of a politician, though, with his iron-gray hair and his dark, modestly-cut suit; a crimson tie added a spot of color to his otherwise monochromatic appearance. He sat stiffly on the couch, as though he expected it to bite him. Athos couldn’t help but notice that his wife sat on the same couch, a respectful distance away, wearing a modest white dress and a sinfully red smirk. She flashed him her best bedroom eyes, and he swallowed hard against the sudden, hot tightness in his chest. The last thing he needed was to get an erection like a horny teenage boy in front of his captain, the Prime Minister, the First Lady, and the President. Not to mention the fact that Porthos and Aramis would never let him live it down if that did happen.

“Well, I appreciate your faith in myself and my men, Monsieur President,” Treville began, “but I’m afraid we’ve come on very urgent and unfortunate business.”

The air of ease that had been filling the room upon their arrival evaporated instantly, leaving tension. Even Louis looked sobered, setting his wine glass down and leaning forward, looking expectant – and worried.

“There’s been an incident at the Hôtel Le Six,” Treville continued. “Ambassador Mendoza has been found dead.”

“Dead?” Richelieu and Louis asked in unison – though Richelieu sounded far less surprised than his counterpart.

“I’m afraid so.”

“How did he die?” Anna asked, her pale face pinching in worry.

“We have reason to believe Ambassador Mendoza was murdered.”

Anna gasped, eyes wide. “Oh no…”

“Murdered?” Louis’s face was the color of milk. “How could this have happened?”

“We’re still assessing the scene to determine what happened,” Treville answered, remarkably calm despite Louis and Anna’s visible panic and the disapproving look Richelieu gave him. “A squadron of my men are still at the scene, trying to determine what happened in Ambassador Mendoza’s suite.”

“Why him? Why would anyone assassinate a Spanish ambassador?” Anne asked, catching the attention of everyone in the room. “Wouldn’t that drag up old tensions between France and Spain?”

“In fact, it would, as my secretary has so kindly pointed out,” Richelieu said.

“We cannot afford tensions between France and Spain!” Louis blurted out. “That was one of my platforms on my campaign, that I would ensure diplomacy with all foreign nations, such as Spain. _Especially_ Spain! I have worked too hard for this to watch it fall apart because of one lunatic!”

“Do you think the murderer targeted Mendoza because he was Spanish?” Anna asked.

“Mendoza was also known for his strong opinions on many key political issues,” Richelieu remarked. “It could have been meant as a message.”

“I don’t care why Mendoza was targeted!” Louis hollered. “He shouldn’t be dead! Oh, if the Spanish find out about this…”

“Sir, we cannot keep the Spanish government in the dark about this,” Richelieu said. “They have a right to know. And deception on your part would only anger them further.”

“What am I supposed to do, call the President of Spain up and tell him that his ambassador is dead after less than a day in Paris?” Louis threw his hands into the air. “I might as well offer him a signed declaration of war with it!”

“You explain the situation delicately,” Richelieu said, sounding very much like a parent trying to deal with a petulant child’s tantrum. “Perhaps approach your wife’s brother on the issue and have him go to the President for you. And tell them that your police are doing all they can to bring the murderer to justice.”

“Yes…yes, police force…” It was then that Louis seemed to realize that Treville, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were still standing there, all of them at parade rest and waiting for the next orders. He scowled. “Well, what are you standing around for? Don’t you have oh, I don’t know, a murder to solve?”

“I believe President de Bourbon means that you and your officers are dismissed, Prefect Treville,” Richelieu said, a hint of smugness in his features. Stone-faced, Treville gave a stiff bow and departed; his three officers followed, the sound of Richelieu and Anna trying to soothe Louis at their backs.

“I do so love how that works,” Porthos grunted, words laced with sarcasm. “He takes the praise an’ we take the piss.”

“Like it or not, there’s not much we can do,” Athos said with a shrug. “He’s the Prime Minister. No doubt, he is always going to receive the praise of President de Bourbon.”

“Of course,” Porthos said. “Slimy bastard.”

“Would you expect anything else of a politician?” Aramis asked. Athos gave him a look, and he held up his hands in supplication, a bit of a grin on his face. “I’m sure your brother is a lovely person, Athos, but he is a politician. Who’s to say he hasn’t done something vaguely underhanded to advance his career?”

“I do. Because Thomas isn’t like that.” Athos jerked open one of the squad car doors to climb inside. “After almost thirty years, I’d like to think I know him pretty well.”

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time d’Artagnan plopped down in his chair in the little corner where he, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had set up, at the police headquarters. Aramis was the first to look up, putting down what he’d been reading – Mendoza’s itinerary, sent over from the none-too-pleased embassy in Spain. As Aramis’s Spanish was the best – his mother was Spanish, after all – reading it had been left to him. He smirked at d’Artagnan, who was draining a paper cup of coffee.

“Long day at the scene?” he asked.

“Let’s just say I wish this was a lot stronger than coffee,” d’Artagnan said.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“I had to watch the men from the coroner’s office remove Ambassador Mendoza from the tub to transport him to the morgue.”

Porthos raised his brows, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Please tell me they had the decency to throw a towel over him or something.”

The shudder that d’Artagnan gave was a full-body one, his brown eyes wide in horror. Aramis and Porthos winced in sympathy, and even Athos felt bad for the poor lad. That wasn’t a fate he wished on anyone, being subjugated to watching a naked, overweight dead man being hauled out of a bathtub.

Well…maybe he could think of a person or two he’d wish it on. Prime Minister Richelieu came to mind.

“Moving past seeing things that cannot be unseen,” d’Artagnan said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his long legs out into the narrow aisle between his and Athos’s desks. “How’d the talk with the President and Prime Minister go?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Athos said with a sigh, looking at the array of photos from the scene of the ambassador’s murder that were spread across his desk, idly running a thumb over them. “De Bourbon threw one of his usual tantrums and Richelieu continues to look at us as if we’re dog shit and he’d stepped in it with his very nice and expensive shoes.”

Porthos gave a bark of laughter, and Aramis chuckled, shaking his head. “That about sums it up. Though you’re neglecting to mention how you somehow miraculously resisted the urge to throw your wife down on de Bourbon’s desk and – ”

He broke off with a startled yelp as Athos grabbed a pencil from his desk and hurtled it at him with expert precision. It bounced off his arms, which he had flung up to protect himself.

“Enough of that already,” Athos said. “I swear, your obsession with mine and Anne’s sex life is insane. And fucking creepy.”

“So,” Porthos said loudly, cutting of Athos and Aramis’s conversation, “d’Artagnan…what’d you learn about the lovely Mademoiselle Bonacieux while talking to her?”

D’Artagnan gave a wry smile. “Well, first off, I learned that it’s _Madame_ Bonacieux, not Mademoiselle. She’s married to the hotel’s owner.”

“No kidding,” Aramis said.

“Mhm. Jacques Bonacieux, owner and proprietor of the Hôtel Le Six. Came and introduced himself while I was questioning Con – Madame Bonacieux.” He made a face, one that suggested he had found Monsieur Bonacieux’s presence distasteful.

“Not pleasant?” Porthos asked.

“A bit snappy about us being there.” D’Artagnan shrugged. “I guess having three police vehicles out front and his manager-slash-wife sitting in a guest’s room and crying while talking to a police officer was a cause for concern, but only as to the reputation of the hotel, not to the possibility that something bad had happened.”

“Well, doesn’t he sound…charming?” Aramis said. “Did you enlighten him on the situation?”

“I did,” d’Artagnan said. “Which sent him onto a rant about the hotel being a reputable place, such a thing couldn’t happen, et cetera, et cetera…and, of course, the coroner’s men choose that moment to wheel the gurney with the body bag on it out.” He smirked. “I’ve never seen anyone shut up so fast.”

“Must have been amusing,” Athos said.

“It was.” D’Artagnan’s face fell slightly. “I did kind of feel bad, though. Madame Bonacieux started crying even harder when they brought the body through.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged smirks. D’Artagnan looked between them, confused.

“What?”

Aramis grinned. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got a bit of a crush on Madame Bonacieux.”

D’Artagnan sputtered, eyes wide and cheeks turning bright pink. “I…w-what, I…I don’t!”

“Oh, he fancies her alright, look at how red he’s gettin’!” Porthos snickered.

“She’s married!”

“That’s never stopped Aramis,” Athos commented, raising an eyebrow at the aforementioned officer, who grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a bad influence, haven’t heard that one before.” Aramis shook his head. “Look, there nothing wrong with looking. It’s all about knowing when it’s okay to touch and when it’s not okay.”

“You mean there’s times when it’s…okay to…touch?” d’Artagnan  asked, looking to Porthos and Athos for help.

“Don’t involve me in this,” Athos said swiftly, turning his attention back to the paperwork on his desk.

“Dunno why you’re asking Aramis for relationship advice,” Porthos said. “Look, it’s okay to have a crush on her, lad. Just…don’t act on it.”

“Unless she comes to you, of course,” Aramis said.

Athos groaned. “Aramis…”

“What? That means she reciprocates the interest!” he protested. “It’s the 21st century, Athos. Extramarital affairs are a dime a dozen, and, honestly, if things go south between Monsieur and Madame Bonacieux, divorce is a perfectly viable option for both.”

“Our hopeless romantic,” Porthos teased.

“Forgive those of us who still believe in the sanctity of marriage,” Athos commented.

“We can’t all have perfect marriages like you, Athos.”

“I just thank God you’re a police officer and not a marriage counselor, or I’d be very concerned about the future of any and all French marriages.” Athos glanced at the digital clock in the corner of the room and tossed his pencil down on his desk with a curse, sweeping the files on his desk into a folder so he could lock them in his desk. “Shit!”

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, looking startled. “What is it?”

“I need to leave. Now,” he said with a wince, dreading the thought of the kinds of crowds that would be on the Metro at this hour. “My brother and his fiancée are coming over for dinner tonight.”

“Oh. For a second, I thought it was something important,” Aramis said with a snicker.

“I already missed Valentine’s Day with my wife,” Athos said, stashing the files in a desk drawer and locking it with one of the keys on his key ring. “And Thomas is so busy I have to schedule dinner with him two months in advance.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Porthos said. “Go do your family dinner thing. Ambassador Mendoza isn’t going anywhere.”

“And if he does, then we have much bigger problems than a murder,” d’Artagnan snickered.

“You watch too many late-night horror movies,” Athos told himm, pulling on his jacket. “I’ll see you lot tomorrow.”

“We’ll be here,” Aramis said.

Athos nodded, heading down the rows of desks, towards the door. As he did, he heard one final comment from Porthos that made him smirk.

“Just in case of zombies, like d’Artagnan was talking about, I call dibs on closing up Richelieu’s coffin the day the old bastard snuffs it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can [find me on Tumblr](http://thatdeadpoetgirl.tumblr.com)


End file.
